


Don't Fuck With Red Scrunchies

by orphan_account



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Horror, Bad angels, Blood and Gore, F/F, Frenemies, Good Demons, Krystolyn Lloyd!!Heather D, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Part Angel!JD, Part Demon!Veronica, Possession, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Heather Duke, the short end of the stick in the Heathers clique, is on a mission.Retrieve the red scrunchie and destroy it.Save Heather Chandler.





	1. Don't Fuck With Heather Chandler

**Author's Note:**

> TW for needles, blood & gore

Nobody knew the truth about the red scrunchie.

Nobody knew where it came from. Everyone said that Heather Chandler had sewn it herself, even though if you knew Chandler, you knew she couldn't sew for shit. That was something Duke was good at, though, and she found herself performing emergency surgery to Heather's clothes when needed, but not downright tailoring them. Heather had a tailor, of course, or she wouldn't look half as hot as she did.

But nobody knew about the tailor, and nobody knew where it came from. Then again, the odd thing is, Heather herself didn't know either.

"I don't know where it came from, Heather, one day I had it and one day I didn't. Now, finish fixing my tights," Heather said, one time when Heather asked. She was sitting on the bathroom counter while Heather sewed up a hole in her tights, and Heather was next to them, fixing her makeup and adjusting her yellow skirt.

So Heather just bit her lip and continued to weave the needle, threaded with the special thread she carried around at all times, something that matched the exact shade of red that Heather constantly wore.

Later that day, they were all hanging out in Heather's bedroom. Heather was sitting primly on the yellow carpeted floor, touching up her red nail polish, the Heather who lived here was sprawled out across her bed, wrinkling her yellow bedspread and absolutely not giving a shit, flipping through the latest issue of People that Heather had brought over. Heather had actually brought quite a few magazines, and she was thumbing through one herself, this one the latest issue of Seventeen.

"So, Heather, Heather, you're both going to Kurt's Halloween party, right?" Heather asked, hands resting on the carpet to dry, and all Heathers could tell that there were already flecks of red polish on the carpet, but none of them said anything.

"Oh, I don't know, Heather. Mom wants me to take Brittany trick-or-treating, and then I was gonna stay in, watch some scary movies," Heather said, briefly looking up from People.

"Oh, come on, Heather, it'll be very," Heather argued, shifting so that her legs weren't tucked under her anymore, but sticking out in front of her in a wide V, so as not to make her have to move her hands. "Besides, watching scary movies by yourself is no fun. Heather, what about you?"

"Oh, I... I guess I'll go. I don't really have anything planned."

"Okay, cool. Heather? Made up your mind yet?"

"Well... maybe I'll come after I take Brit trick-or-treating. She'll be done by eight, anyway."

"Smart choice, Heather," Heather said, lifting a hand to inspect her nails and then the other to blot at them gently, to test for dryness. Her fingertips came off clean.

"So what are you gonna go as?" Heather asked, setting Seventeen off to the side and picking up a copy Us Weekly from June.

"Oh, I'm going as a sexy pirate. My uncle's loaning me a really good fake sword. It's blunt, unfortunately, though," Heather answered. "What about you, Heather? And Heather."

"I'm going as a sexy deer," Heather said, beginning to fidget with the bedspread. "I already bought it, it's in the closet."

"I'm going as a sexy zombie cheerleader," Heather answered, gazing for a bit too long at Madonna at the cover, but when she realised what she was doing, she quickly flipped open the magazine, so quick that she gave herself a paper cut on her ring finger. "Oh, damnit."

"I have bandages in the bathroom, middle drawer, Heather," Heather said, looking up from People.

"Thanks, Heather," Heather said, smiling, standing up.

"Don't throw up too much while you're in there," Heather taunted, smoothing out a roll on her tights that'd developed.

Heather went into the bathroom and shut and locked the door behind her, before silently sliding down the door and burying her head in her knees, her hands falling between her torso and legs.

She really hated Heather, sometimes. No, all the time. She truly felt like she was the odd one out of the group. The only one who truly didn't belong.

"Heather's really annoying, isn't she?" She heard those words faintly said by none other than the Red Monster herself, and she moved her head quietly so her ear was against the door.

"She's trying, Heather." She could almost see Heather fidgeting with something. Her hair. The yellow bedspread.

"No, Heather's annoying. Say it. Say that she's annoying."

"I..."

"Say it, Heather. Or the entire school will know about you and Troy Selwater in the janitor's closet, last Friday."

"Fine. Heather's annoying. With her bulimia and all."

Heather saw red. Heather's perfectly lipsticked bloodred lips smiling wickedly. "Good."

Heather suddenly felt like her body had been dunked in a tub of ice water, and she felt a sticky warmth against her stomach.

She slowly pulled her legs out in front of her, looking at the ceiling and biting her lip, before looking down.

Sticky, warm, thick black blood. All over her jarringly crisp, freshly ironed white button down and pooling in a dip formed due to her legs being where they'd been. She slowly lifted up the hand with the paper cut and watched the blood drip down in large quantities.

She felt lightheaded, suddenly, and stumbled up, bracing herself by her forearm on the counter, and stared at herself in the mirror in shock.

Black braids strewn all over the place. Brown skin looking extremely pale. The taste of iron in her mouth.

She spat at the mirror, then stared in shock at the black blood splattered all over it, before toppling to the ground and writhing in pain.

"Heather! Heather! Help!" She cried, but nobody came, and as she stared up at the ceiling, everything turned yellow, then grey, then black and nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imma try and get this done by spoopy night
> 
> expect multiple chapters today


	2. Don't Fuck With Liesel Schmidt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Liesel Schmidt."
> 
> "German?"
> 
> "No, French."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for kidnapping and the D slur.

Heather woke up tied to a chair in an almost entirely dark room. She could just barely make out red cords binding her hands to the sides of the chairs, and she could feel the ones on her legs.

Just a couple seconds later, she saw a match light up in front of her, and a face appear over it. "Good, you're awake," they said.

"Who are you? Where am I?" Heather cried, struggling against the bonds.

The person didn't answer, but Heather heard a snap of the fingers, and next thing she knew, she was sitting primly on the edge of a worn brown leather settee. Directly in front of her was a glass coffee table with two steaming mugs of tea on blue coasters.

Behind that was a girl lounging on a blue settee, same size as the one she sat on. She wore a black long-sleeved shirt with big shoulder pads, black pants, and black combat boots. She had short fluffy brown hair, held back with a blue headband.

"Who are you?" Heather asked slowly.

The girl stared directly at her. For a full minute, their eyes stayed locked. Finally, she spoke.

"Liesel Schmidt."

"German?"

"No, French."

Heather gave her an odd look.

"Okay, fine. Eva, should I-"

"Go ahead, Liesel," a voice spat. Heather recognised it as the person with the candle.

"Fine. I'm actually Veronica Sawyer. American. We're in Ohio still, about twenty minutes from Westerburg."

"Okay, American," Heather spat. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Because you're the best person for the job."

"What job?"

"Okay, look. You do know how Heather Chandler got that red scrunchie, right?"

"Um... no?"

"Exactly. She always says it just appeared. And it did. That red scrunchie is one of the most dangerous objects in existence."

"It's just a scrunchie."

"It may appear that way. But it's laced with angel magic. Dark magic."

"How is angel magic 'dark magic?' I'm confused," Heather asked.

"Because demons were always the good ones. All those biblical fantasies of pure angels? Were written by angels. Angels are out to wreak havoc on humans. We demons were always trying to keep the peace."

"So, you're saying, everything I thought was true is wrong. And also, we?"

"I'm part demon. My mom was full-fledged demon, but my dad was pure blood human. And, just what you thought was true about angels and demons is wrong."

"Alright then, maybe it does have dark angel magic or whatever in it. If you want the red scrunchie, I'm not the person to be talking to."

"Yes, you are. Because you're gonna help us get it."

"How the fuck do you expect me to do that, smartass?"

Veronica smiled and stuck an arm under her settee, and pulled out a red binder, near the shade of the trademark Heather Chandler red, but still a couple shades off. "We start keeping tabs on the wearer of the red scrunchie as soon as it appears. Do you remember Heather in middle school?"

"I... no? Didn't she move here freshman year?"

"No. She was invisible in middle school. A nothing. But she found the red scrunchie over the summer before freshman year, figured out it made her something. She wore it every day after that. She was almost instantly popular. But before she had it... not only was she invisible, she was someone else."

"Yeah, and who was she? My elementary and middle school best friend?"

"No, Kimberly Jean Richardson moved to Oregon in seventh grade, we both know that, Heather. She was... kind. It's hard to believe, but she really was, kind to everyone she met."

Heather couldn't help it. She laughed, bitterly and loudly. Heather?! Kind?! That's the funniest thing I ever heard, lady."

"No, Heather, she really was. She was also a bit geeky. And she looked the part. Wore glasses, had braces, but did have a couple romantic relationships."

"Oh yeah? Which guys?"

"Actually, they were all with women."

Heather erupted into hysterical laughter, which continued for a good minute and a half, wherein Veronica stared at her, stone-faced, for that entire time.

"Are you done?" Veronica asked, once Heather's laughter had finally subsided.

"Yes. But seriously, that's hilarious. Heather's not a dyke."

Veronica opened up the binder and flipped to a page. "Girlfriend number one. Jenna M. Sikeston. Sixth grade." She set the binder on the coffee table, facing Heather, and she leaned down to peer at it.

It was a yearbook photo, black and white, and the caption was, "Ugly dykes Heather Chandler and Jenna Sikeston share a kiss on the 55-yard-line of the high school football field." Sure enough, that was definitely Heather, wearing round wire glasses and a cardigan, very involved in a kiss with this Jenna, who wore a disaster of a shirt, ruffled heavily.

Now that she thought about it, she kinda remembered Jenna, from an incident in chemistry in freshman year. She'd accidentally blown up one of the Bunsen burners. That was probably in the yearbook, too.

"I can't... she really..."

"Yes," Veronica answered, picking up the binder again and flipping forward a couple pages. "Girlfriend number two. Janis Clarke. Summer before seventh grade, a brief fling at the Outer Banks turned brief long-distance relationship, before Janis broke it off over letter. The next two pages have mimeographed copies of some of their letters." She set the binder back down.

This time, Heather took the binder up in her arms. Janis was tall, lacking anything in the boob department, wearing a polka-dotted one-piece swimsuit. Heather wore a dark-coloured tankini with sequins shining in the sunlight. They were on the beach together, holding hands, and Heather's head was on Janis' shoulder. Under that, there was another picture of them kissing, this one a little blurry, and by the position of Heather's arm, it was obvious that Heather had taken the photo herself.

The letters were chock full off sappy, disgusting stuff that would've easily confirmed that they had been together had the photos not been taken. It was jarring. To see the words of Heather when she was younger, free, and happy. And, apparently, a dyke.

The next seven girlfriends were just like that. Lovey-dovey photos, occasionally some letters. Undeniable proof of her past.

"So, what happened?" Heather finally asked.

"We believe the scrunchie appeared in early July, summer before her freshman year of high school. She put it on, and it helped her transform. She stopped wearing her glasses and turned to contacts, lost her retainer, began dressing in the latest fashions. The magic changes how someone thinks, how they act. One day, she's a geeky dyke, the next, she's a fashionable hot girl, straight as a ruler.

She broke up with her last girlfriend, Roberta Henderson, and started dating jocks and going to big parties, already laying down the groundwork for popularity. By the time her pumps set foot on school property, it was over for any other popular girls. She took them down by the end of the first week of school."

"So the scrunchie forced her to be someone she's really not?" Heather's head was spinning. Did this mean that underneath, Heather was a kind girl, a geek, a dyke? After everything Heather had done to her, it was a little hard to comprehend.

"Yes, precisely. So, back to the bigger question. How you're getting the scrunchie and setting her free. Or, well, we. I'm going to insert myself into the Heathers clique and help you out, taking the part of a girl who just moved here."

"How do you expect to do that? It's a very selective clique, we only accept popular people named Heather," Heather joked.

Veronica smiled. "I'm excellent at forgery. Handwriting, permission slips, report cards, absence notes, you name it. And I have a good head on my shoulders. I know one of the core values of your group is symmetrical faces. So long as you play along, it'll be a piece of cake."

"Okay. So say you wheedle your way into the clique. How do we get the scrunchie?"

 


End file.
